


baby now you're one of us

by ritarepulsas



Series: talking 'bout bad girls [3]
Category: Power Rangers Jungle Fury
Genre: Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritarepulsas/pseuds/ritarepulsas
Summary: Turns out, freedom feels more suffocating than servitude.





	baby now you're one of us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapoeysap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/gifts).

> Happy spooky season Bryce! My partner in fic writing. I hope you enjoy this and that it transported you back to 2009 when everyone's eyeliner was thicker and not winged. I've never written for Jungle Fury before so thank you for letting me flex those muscles and dive into Camille's mind.

Turns out, freedom feels more suffocating than servitude.

For starters, having to decide everything on your own overwhelms Camille more than she anticipated. What to wear, what to think, where to go, it’s all within reach and she can’t process it fully so she drowns it out.

One night when she enters Jungle Karma Pizza, silently dreading a closing shift--another thing about freedom is the realization that everything costs money and getting a “job” is a requirement--she finds a wrapped box in her locker.

Stuck to the front, a simple note with “to make sense of it all” scribbled on top. Camille’s face twists in confusion, but she rips off the paper and holds up a slightly thick box wrapped in a cord. She untangles the cord, tossing it on the ground and eyeing the box.

It wasn’t heavy. There were buttons towards the middle, a series of arrows and squares pointing in different directions. A code? Did this contain a message? From Jarrod possibly?

“Those go in your ears,” a voice instructs, simultaneously reading her mind and disproving her theory. She turns to see RJ emptying his dustpan contents into a nearby dumpster. He motions towards the discarded cords.

“Oh,” Camille stammers, embarrassed. She picks up the cord, inspecting them before stuffing both into each ear. She looks back at RJ, her eyes pleading for further instruction. 

The words flutter on the tip of her tongue: _ tell me what to do. Someone. _

He smirks, taking a step closer. “Press play. The arrow pointing to the right.”

Camille’s attention drifts back to the box, pressing the correct arrow. Suddenly, sound fills her ears. Some sort of tune. As she tries to decipher it, a series of other noises collide. 

She jumps, startled. RJ laughs, which makes her want to hurl the foreign box at his head. She resists and returns to it, seeing the glass screen is now lit up. Words are displayed onscreen.

“Paramore?” She asks, glancing back up, only to find RJ was gone. She was alone, again, but somehow the music in her ears eases the blow.

…

It doesn’t take long for Camille to conclude that this music was a comfort. She found herself at the local library, researching everything she could on the musicians in her iPod (or at least that’s what Fran calls it). She watches music videos, interviews, learns the words to the songs. 

Eventually, the music feels embedded onto her skin, coursing through her veins without the cords in her ears. The hours at work fly by, she finds the insults of dissatisfied customers and the waste they leave her to pick up sliding off her back and she can actually sleep.

“What’s gotten into you?” Lily teases, one morning, as Camille practically skips into the parlor, lost in the vocals pumping into her ears.

Camille yanks the cords from her ears, which plops her back down from her cloud and into reality. “Huh?”

Lily smiles as she finishes cleaning a table. “Nothing, you just seem different.”

“Different, bad?” Camille asks, feeling the hesitation and uncertainty creeping back in. She had been so consumed as of late that she hadn’t even considered how she was coming off to others. Had she been doing it all wrong?

_ Tell me how to act. Someone. _

Lily shakes her head, walking towards her. Camille feels her heart stop momentarily, fully aware of how close they were. How Lily embodied sunshine, even in the wee hours of the day. “Not bad,” Lily starts, giving her another smile. More heart stopping. “I love your new look. It suits you.”

Camille glances down at her outfit, at her shoes that she had scribbled on, the rubber bracelets that piled her wrists, her studded belt. She had essentially copied the clothing of all of the musicians she listened to. Putting outfits together and shopping was another new adventure she had slowly started to enjoy.

“Thanks,” she croaks, fighting the urge to linger on Lily’s lips for longer than normal. But what is normal? She still wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that the way she felt when she listened to these songs, the emotions they discussed, a lot of it was how she felt whenever she was in Lily’s orbit.

But as soon as the thought tempts her mind, Lily is gone, and she is once again alone. She stuffs the cords back in her ears, allows the music to coat her like an armor, and proceeds further into the parlor.

…

The flyer catches her eye in the window of a local music shop. One of her favorite bands are playing in town. This weekend. She freezes, reading the words over and over again to make sure it’s real.

Just when they start to sink in, a body collides into her. She stumbles, but stops herself from falling. She faces the culprits, seeing a group of boys snickering at her. They couldn’t be older than her, yet their confidence far exceeded hers.

“What a freak,” one of them spits, before continuing down the street. His friend’s laugh.

Camille’s heart sinks. There it is, her fears and anxieties intensified. Somehow, all of this, was the wrong way to go. She watches them get further and further away and tries to mentally scream at them to turn around, give her the answers she wants. Needs.

_ Tell me what to say. Someone. _

They never turn around. She’s alone again and this time the music, her armor, is chipping away.

…

The night of the concert, she stays home. She lies on the ground of her bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, letting the silence fill her. It had been so long since she had been with her thoughts, letting them guide her instead of the music. It’s not as comforting as it is numbing, but maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

“What are you doing?” A voice calls. She looks over, seeing Theo staring down at her. She sits up, as if she had been caught doing something bad. Maybe she was. “I thought that band was in town.” He continues, going over to sit down on the ground next to her.

Camille watches him, unsure of how to proceed. “How did you know?”

“It’s been all over the radio, are you kidding?” He answers, shaking his head playfully. “I thought you would’ve been all over that with the way you haven’t put that iPod down.”

“I stopped. It was a distraction.” She lies, her eyes traveling to her drawer where she stuffed her iPod. She hadn’t touched it since that incident the other day.

Theo shifts in his spot. “Ouch. I thought you could’ve used it.” His words are barely above a whisper, but Camille hears it. Her head whips up.

“_You _ got it for me?!” She explains.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Theo teases. “It was a team effort, but I came up with the idea. If you don’t want it, I think I can still--.”

Before Theo can finish, Camille reaches over and tackles him into a hug. It was impulsive, and she starts to wonder if she misstepped again, when Theo returns the hug.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Anytime.”

…

After some prodding by Theo, Camille takes a taxi to the concert venue. It’s a tiny building. Despite the fact that the concert is almost over, there’s a crowd filling the streets outside. People are dancing, bumping into one another to the point where she can’t tell if they’re dancing or fighting.

As she approaches the crowd, the music fills her veins again. She finds herself smiling, unintentionally. Everyone here, they’re dressed like her. A girl notices her, flashing her a smile before motioning for her to join in.

She does, maneuvering her eyes into the heart of the crowd. The chaos of it all consumes her, but it doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels comforting. She holds her hands up, singing along to every word.

All along, the answers were there inside her: what to do, say, act, feel. It had been muscle memory, without her even knowing.

Maybe freedom isn’t suffocating at all. Maybe she’s just finally learning to breathe on her own.


End file.
